


kamikaze airplanes

by effie214



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:36:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effie214/pseuds/effie214
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all very normal until it's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kamikaze airplanes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sgmajorshipper on LJ. Title from the Tyrone Wells song "Sink or Swim." Enjoy.

Theirs is a relationship of juxtaposition, of jockeying for it as well, maneuvering land mines of “thou shalt not covet thy costar” and the gravitational force that seems to keep them insistently in each other’s orbit despite all reason. 

(Then again, reason has no place in love, so perhaps it’s all a moot point.)

What’s amazing is that it’s always been natural, as innate and automatic as breathing, and bombs of inevitability whistle past their heads far louder than their half-hearted protests.  It feels like Fate or Cupid or Steven Moffat is piloting a kamikaze airplane over their heads, holding them squarely in the crosshairs , but they never run from the onslaught.  Instead, they drift toward each other, each other’s lighthouse on a rocky shore, and eventually “before” doesn’t exist beyond a theoretical construct. 

It feels like this is how it’s always been; how it was always _meant_ to be.  It’s perfectly normal for her to turn up at his bearing a movie and take-away, hair piled haphazardly atop her head and face cradled by tendrils almost as unruly as she is.

(It’s all he can do not to push them behind her ear and kiss her senseless.  He wars with himself; he’s so desperate to tell her that when he’d said “hello” the day she auditioned, he was actually asking “what are you doing for the rest of your life?” and yet he knows that if he gave in to the urge and she didn’t reciprocate, he’d mourn “never again” far more than he does “if only.”)

It’s also perfectly normal for them to call each other before bed every night, talking about everything and nothing, each pausing a beat after reverently whispered “good night”s in the hope the other will utter three words that so desperately need to be said but that also seem grossly inadequate for exploring the depth of what they feel . It’s perfectly normal for her to have to stop by on her way to celebrate Caitlin’s birthday with a weekend trip back home because she’s left half a dozen random articles of clothing scattered about his flat, the items taking over his closet just as she has taken hold of his heart.

It’s normal for them to blatantly reject the necessity of personal space; to wake up with a terrible crick in the neck from falling asleep tangled together on his couch, her head on his shoulder, hand over his heart and his cheek resting against the crown of her hair. 

(It’s normal for him to memorize every bit of how she looks when he’s sleeping, and praying to God or Fate or the Universe [or Steven Moffat]  to let him wake to this scene every morning for the next eternity or two.)

It’s normal for him to save mementos of each shoot they do together, not because he wants to remember the episode itself, but to add to his memories with her.  He’s got a synthetic sunflower from the Van Gogh episode, vial of dirt from Monument Valley, a rock from the castle where they filmed the ganger two-parter.  It’s tucked away in the corner of his closet, because logically he knows Amy and the Doctor’s adventures will eventually end, but damn if he won’t try to hold tight to _her_.

It’s normal for his mum to ask after her, to insist he bring her ‘round more often.  (It is _not_ normal, however, to watch the two most important women in his life bending over his baby book with identical looks of mischievousness tinting their eyes.  After the mortification of Karen looking at the obligatory “naked baby in the bath” picture wears off, he finds his unheeded protests have nothing to do with losing his dignity and more with wondering if their children would look more like him or her.)

It’s normal – and also bloody dangerous – for him to reach for her whenever he gets the chance, hand ghosting across her hip to the small of her back, feeling the silks of the dresses she wears to premieres and photo calls and the heat emanating off of her – off of _them_.  As the days progress, it’s normal for him to pull her a little tighter against him, turning her so that her public stance mirrors the one she takes in private with him. 

It’s even normal when they row, two feisty, insistent personalities clashing like a train and car at a crossroads for which they had no warning. 

(The fact they both run their hands through their hair in unmitigated frustration is ironic; even when they feel a chasm spanning a hundred thousand miles dividing them, they’re inescapably symbiotic.  Denial is the nectar of fools, and they’re both exceptionally smart individuals, so they don’t fight it.)

It’s an intimacy that baffles them both sometimes; they stare at each other and their mobile phones and wonder how on earth they’d married without officially dating. 

It’s all very normal until it’s not.

Thunder is rolling loudly, yelling to be heard over the downpour scratching desperately at his window.  He’s staring into his fridge, willing something appetizing to materialize in front of him, when the buzzer sounds.  He crosses to the intercom, inquiring as to the identity of his visitor.

He barely hears her reply over the driving rain.  “It’s me.  Can I come up?”

He doesn’t answer, merely unlocking the security door and heading to his small entryway.  She’s climbing the steps and he does a double take, for she’s soaked to the bone, her hair dark and flattened against her cheeks.  He ushers her inside, taking her overcoat and hanging it over the railing to the steps that ascend to the kitchen and living room. 

He’s alarmed when he sees her lips – for they are the one thing he always looks at first, on instinct and inexorableness – blue and moving rapidly from how hard her teeth are chattering. He immediately puts his hands on her arms, rubbing vigorously in a desperate attempt to warm her up.  “Flipping hell, Kaz, did you _walk_ here?”

She can only nod, but he thinks it’s because of the cold and not hesitation to explain why she’d done it.  He takes her by the hand and leads her upstairs, depositing her on the couch as he goes to start some tea.  As the water begins to boil, he bounds into the bedroom, grabbing a jumper and a pair of her sweatpants before returning to her. 

He hears her bare feet pad across the hardwood as she enters the kitchen, and he pulls down two mugs from his cupboards. He waits a moment before glancing at her sidelong, wondering if she’s going to speak.  He’s surprised to find her staring at him, an unreadable expression on her face.  It throws him for a loop; he’s never seen this kind of emotion there before – and God knew just how much he liked to look at it – and his heart begins to beat double time.  He leans against the countertop, arms crossed interestedly and waits her out.

(After all, he’s waited this long for things to change for them.  He also understands there’s a very real possibility he’ll be left waiting forever.)

She takes a deep breath, and when she speaks again, her voice doesn’t make it fully past her vocal cords.  Her words are husky but also palpably hesitant. “I got a call from my agent today.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, damp tendrils sticking determinedly to her cheeks.  “A producer called with an offer to do a play.”

He grins and makes a mental note to ask his parents and granddad if they want to accompany him on opening night.  “That’s fantastic, Kaz!” 

She doesn’t share his enthusiasm, eyeing him warily.  “No, it’s really not.”

He waves a halfway dismissive hand in her direction, misreading her expression for one of doubt and fear. “You’ll do amazing.  The West End’ll be lucky to have you.”

She shakes her head and captures her bottom lip between her teeth in worry before answering.  “The play’s not in London.”

His mouth opens slightly in shock, and he can feel the earth move beneath his feet as he realizes what she’s intimating.  “They want you to go to New York.”

She nods again, sitting back against the high back of the stool she’d slid onto while he was finishing the tea.  “Broadway.”  There’s a disbelieving reverence in her tone.  “I mean… _Broadway._ ”

He smiles and teases, “Are you sure they didn’t get you mixed up with someone else?”

She rolls her eyes but smiles nonetheless.  “Fairly sure, yeah.”

He shrugs a little bit, pride swelling in his chest.  “I’m still not seeing the problem here.”

She licks her lips and it’s all he can do to keep upright.  It’s a marvel what this woman does to him.  “They want me there next month.”

He rears his head back slightly in surprise.  “In the middle of the series?”

She nods slowly, and he adds another question.  “How long do they want you to stay?”

She raises her eyebrows and shoulders in an _I don’t know_ gesture.  “As long as I want to, I suppose.”

The truth bowls into him like waves hitting the jettisoned shore, the light that’s guided him home on so many occasions extinguished.  “You want Steven to write you out.”

She rubs the back of her neck.  “It’s going to happen eventually.  Might as well do it on my terms.”

He stares at a spot behind her head, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that not only is she leaving, but she’s initiating the separation.  Even with the fantastic nature everything he’s experienced since one fateful phone call from his own agent, he’d never considered she’d leave of her own volition. 

There’s a brick where his heart used to be, which baffles him; how can something so commonly used as foundation take hold of him when it feels like his world is crumbling?  With a heavy sigh, he returns his eyes to hers.  “So, what?  You want my permission?” 

She half-flinches at the unintended venom in his voice, and he squeezes his eyes shut in instantaneous regret.  “Sorry,” he says quietly.  “I just…I can’t imagine going to work and you not being there.”

She sighs at that, a disappointed sound and nods to herself, turning her head to glance out the window to her left.  “Work,” she repeats.  “Right.”

His chest tightens further, wondering why she’s grabbed hold of that distinction.  “Kaz, why did you come here?”

She levels him with another complex gaze, this one of jagged disappointment and longing truth and blinding hope.  “I want you to tell me to stay.”

He feels stuck between the most rigid rock and an even stiffer hard place.  Of course he doesn’t want her to go; she’s his conscience and freedom and the very definition of life (and love) to him, but they’ve always been nothing but supportive of each other, and he’d hate for her career to suffer because of his own selfish desires.  “Kaz, this is an amazing opportunity—“

She throws her hands up, and they’re shaking more from frustration than the chill.  “Oh, sod the opportunity!” she cries.  “Tell me you want me to stay.  Hell, tell me you want me in the first place.  I can’t have misread this,” she gestures between them.  “We’ve been doing this dance for so long, Matt.  And you know what?  I’m tired.  I’m tired of hoping, I’m tired of hurting, I’m tired of living an actor’s dream and not _caring_ , because the only thing I dream about is you, and then I wake up to an empty bed and –“

His lips are on hers before he even realizes he’s moved.  He cradles her face in his hands, thumbs rubbing across her cheekbones, tasting her words and passion and the intangibilities that _are_ Karen, and he wonders how he survived this long without knowing what it was like.  She sighs against his mouth and winds her arms around his neck, fingertips teasing the hair at the nape of his neck.  When her lips part, he slides his tongue sweetly across hers, uproariously proud when he feels the shiver run through her like rivulets of rain sliding down the windows.  His hands trace her waist, slipping beneath the hem of her jumper, and her skin against his bare hands feels like a harbinger of things to come.

“Took you long enough.”

Now he leans back more substantially, and it’s all he can do not to match the silly, beautiful grin on her face.  “Beg pardon?  Who says _you_ couldn’t be the one to kiss _me_?”

She shrugs.  “It’s just not how I operate.”

He can’t decide whether he wants to kiss her again or throttle her.  “I didn’t think Karen Gillan deferred to anybody but herself.”

She tilts her head to the side in playful dismissal.  “One of my many contradictions.  Take ‘em or leave ‘em.”

He whispers their final words of the night against her mouth as he starts to guide them toward the staircase and his bedroom.  “Believe me, I’m very, very interested in taking them.”

(He sends her off to New York with his box of collected treasures, as a reminder not of what she’d left behind, but of what she would come back to.

He, his mum, dad and granddad are still there in the front row for her opening night.

The kids look more like him.)

fin


End file.
